


Broken

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Breathplay, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Inline with canon, M/M, Masochism, No Aftercare, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punishment, Rough Sex, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I almost didn’t see you do it.' Imayoshi sounds conversational, amused more than threatening, but his fingers are shifting, digging in sharply so his fingernails cut against Hanamiya’s skin." Hanamiya plays dirty but so does Imayoshi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



“That’s everything for the day.” Imayoshi tilts his head, the angle that is probably intended to be comforting but always reads as just slightly unsettling. It makes Hanamiya grins from the corner of the locker room, where he’s been only half-listening to the other’s strategic outline. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Hanamiya gets to his feet a moment after everyone else, his movements delayed just enough to be offset from the rest of the crowd. It’s his own game, falling just far enough out-of-sync with a crowd that he can be in everyone’s way without seeming to do so. It’s not enough to cause major injuries, but it is enough to be amusing, to leave everyone around him off-balance and vaguely unsettled.

He’s thinking about that, watching the shimmer of discomfort flicker over the faces of those around him, when an arm snaps out from the mass and fingers close against his arm.

“Oh, Hanamiya.” Imayoshi sounds faintly surprised. It’s a good impression of someone who has only just thought of something he has nearly forgotten. “Stay behind for a minute.”

Hanamiya blinks, lets his expression fall into wide-eyed innocence. “Sure, captain.” The remaining teammates part around them, make for the door without looking back, but Imayoshi doesn’t let his hold go, even when Hanamiya smiles apologetically and shifts in closer to relieve the tension in his shoulder. Even as the door swings shut behind the last of their teammates Imayoshi keeps his fingers tight, keeps his uncanny smile fixed on Hanamiya’s face. Hanamiya is just starting to feel the ache under the other’s hold, evidence that Imayoshi is tightening his fingers to press past the point of comfort, when the other finally speaks without his smile so much as flickering.

“I almost didn’t see you do it.” He sounds conversational, amused more than threatening, but his fingers are shifting, digging in sharply so his fingernails cut against Hanamiya’s skin.

Hanamiya flinches at the hurt, his mask turning the hiss of protest into a whimper of confused pain, blinks up at the other’s eyes. He can’t see the expression in them for the forced friendly curve of the other’s smile, but he still does his best to make eye contact as he offers, “I’m sorry, captain,” with a shaky laugh that sounds as scared as he doesn’t feel. “What are you talking about?”

Normally Hanamiya is paying more attention to his surroundings. During a game it’s simple to track everyone’s line of sight, the shift of feet and shoulders and hands to determine the best course of action, whether a legal move or an unseen foul. But there’s something in Imayoshi’s expression, some uncanny discomfort in the mismatch between the tone of his voice and the sharp white of his teeth, that is occupying Hanamiya’s attention so he doesn’t see the foot that snaps out to clip hard at the back of his ankle in near-perfect imitation of the move he used halfway through practice today.

He doesn’t even have a chance to catch his balance. The impact is so sudden and so sharp he’s falling before he can think to grab for anything to catch himself, and Imayoshi’s letting his bruise-tight hold go at the same time so Hanamiya is in free-fall for a moment before he lands hard on the end of the narrow bench in front of the lockers. It’s a relief to not have hit the floor, but the impact is still enough to lay him out flat and breathless against the support while Imayoshi steps in to look down at him.

“Remember now?” When he leans down the illumination on his features slides into shadow, strips away the eerie cheer from his smile and turns it into a threat. “Sawamura’s not usually that clumsy, you know.”

Hanamiya stares up at the shadows over Imayoshi’s eyes, the dark shine of his teeth and the curve of his lips, calculates the likelihood that he can effectively lie his way out of this against the benefit to be gained from admission. “Really?” He takes a breath, lets his borrowed expression of innocence go slack and bored and sincere. “I didn’t find that worth noticing.”

Imayoshi’s laugh is razor-edged, delighted amusement that Hanamiya is not invited to share in. “You should have,” he says, reaches out to grab at Hanamiya’s shirt and drag him a few inches farther up the bench so Imayoshi can rest his knee at the end of the support. “You could have tried someone else and I might not have caught you tripping him.”

Hanamiya shrugs, the movement sloppy with unconcern. “Whatever. If I were afraid of getting caught it would hardly be worth doing anyway.” He sighs, blinks deliberately slowly and tauntingly. “You’re not going to kick me off the team. I’m the best player we have, and you like winning too much to throw away the one genius you’ve got.”

Imayoshi huffs a laugh. It sounds sincere in his throat, almost warm with true emotion, but his smile is catching wider, and when he lets go of Hanamiya’s shirt it doesn’t feel like capitulation.

“Of course I’m not going to kick you off the team.” He leans up, away, casts his features back into the light. “You’re an excellent player.”

His hand moves so quickly Hanamiya doesn’t see it coming. The impact against his cheek is stunning, blows his attention clear out of his mind and knocks his head sideways, leaves him shocked and staring wide-eyed at the wall.

“I’ll do whatever I need to do to keep you on the team,” Imayoshi is saying. Hanamiya can barely hold the words in his head for the ringing surprise in his thoughts. “But you  _will_  listen to me.”

Hanamiya lifts a hand to his mouth. It comes away clean -- there’s no blood from the impact of Imayoshi’s hand across his skin -- but he can feel the swelling rising, still numb from the impact but promising pain in the future. He’s never been on the receiving end of the fouls he deals out so easily; there’s a thrill to it, adrenaline coming hot in his blood, telling him to fight or flee.

He turns his head back up, looks up at Imayoshi watching his reaction. When he smiles it doesn’t take any acting at all, he can feel the lopsided pull at his bruised mouth and doesn’t even try to smooth it into symmetry. “Are you going to make me?”

Imayoshi’s smile doesn’t even flicker. If anything it pulls wider, catches his mouth into true delight, and when he reaches out for Hanamiya’s shoulder it’s to brace him down against the bench. Hanamiya doesn’t try to pull away; it’d be pointless right now, Imayoshi has the advantage of age and size on him and his even balance lacks any of the weak points Hanamiya would be happy to take advantage of.

“Yes,” Imayoshi says, purring agreement in the back of his throat, and he reaches out to settle his fingers against Hanamiya’s throat.

This isn’t how Hanamiya expected this to go. In practice Imayoshi has been faintly unsettling but never anything but perfectly, maddeningly polite to the team and all the members therein. He’s smiled at Hanamiya, had carefully distant small talk with him, and if Hanamiya considered the possibility of a sadistic streak under that it has been under the assumption Imayoshi wouldn’t be so foolish as to act on it. But Imayoshi’s hand is warm against Hanamiya’s skin, almost hot as he presses down, and he’s not leaving telltale bruises yet but Hanamiya wonders if he will, if he can be needled into leaving evidence.

“This won’t work,” he says, the words clear because Imayoshi isn’t pressing hard, yet, he’s still sliding his hand like he’s appreciating the vibration of Hanamiya’s throat under his palm. “I thought you were better at playing games than this.”

“I thought you were a genius,” Imayoshi says with that imperturbable smile. His thumb dips in, presses against the side of Hanamiya’s neck, and he’s not pushing hard but Hanamiya can feel the hurt immediately, his body saying  _danger_  from the pressure at his artery.

“I am a genius,” he manages, tipping his head back to offer the suggestion along with the taunt, the unspoken hint for the other to give in to his anger, take it out on Hanamiya’s skin so the other has proof of abuse he can use to win this standoff. “You couldn’t beat me no matter how long you tried.”

“I don’t need to beat you,” Imayoshi laughs, and his hand slides, his thumb letting the pressure go so he can press in against the base of Hanamiya’s throat instead. “I just need to break you.” When he pushes in it’s quick, sudden hard pressure against the dip of the other’s throat, and Hanamiya is choking instantly, gasping for air and grabbing in helpless instinct at Imayoshi’s shoulder. He can feel the pressure radiating panic down his spine, his throat convulsing reflexively for air, and all his skin is going hot with adrenaline before Imayoshi lets his hold go.

Hanamiya gasps air, his heart pounding against his ribcage, and maybe it’s the heat in his veins and maybe it’s the hum in his thoughts that makes him tip his head sideways, makes him smile wide and reckless and daring at the other.

“I’m not broken yet,” he says.

Imayoshi doesn’t growl, doesn’t shout or grimace or even so much as frown. He smiles instead, pleased and almost proud, says, “I should hope not,” and then he’s reaching out again, fitting both hands against Hanamiya’s throat with the precision that speaks more to his calm that even the expression on his face.

Imayoshi’s composure isn’t going to shatter. Hanamiya is good at reading people, he’s good at seeing their weak points and digging sharp-edged reactions out of them, and Imayoshi is going calmer with every taunt, his control adapting to the situation instead of going brittle under Hanamiya’s efforts. By all logic Hanamiya should admit his loss, drop the teasing and pull up some act of contrition so he can escape. But he has never admitted loss before in his life, and he’s not sure Imayoshi won’t see through an act with those smile-creased eyes, and there’s something else in him, some insane rush that tips his head back in offering and lets his eyes flutter shut as Imayoshi starts to press against his throat again. Hanamiya’s skin is rushing hot, waves of warmth tingling out through his limbs and out through his fingers where they’ve landed at Imayoshi’s shoulders, and it’s not panic but compliance that overlays his thoughts as his lungs start to burn for lack of air.

Hanamiya doesn’t realize he’s hard until Imayoshi lets him go, until he takes a deep breath of oxygen the sweeter for his deprivation. He feels languid, heavy and sedated until he’s not surprised when his knee slips wider and the motion drags the pulled-taut fabric of his shorts against the ache of his cock. He’s not sure Imayoshi has noticed, can’t find it in him to care if he has or hasn’t; he’s not thinking about bruises or evidence anymore, isn’t thinking of revenge as much as getting Imayoshi’s fingers back where they were to give him another rush of responsive adrenaline. Skin brushes against his jawline, fingers push his chin up higher, and Hanamiya tips his head back without protest or resistance so Imayoshi can dig his thumb and forefinger in just under his jaw, tight against the pulse along the side of his neck. It’s just one hand, this time, and a tug at the edge of Hanamiya’s shorts answers the question of Imayoshi’s other hand and whether he’s noticed or not at once.

“I thought you said you weren’t broken,” Imayoshi purrs, the sound turning into dark amusement on his tongue, and he pushes against Hanamiya’s throat, his palm hovering so when Hanamiya chokes against the pressure and bucks up involuntarily he presses his cock against the warmth of Imayoshi’s hand. He shakes his head rather than wasting breath on speaking but Imayoshi just laughs, wraps his fingers tight against Hanamiya’s length to match his grip on the other’s neck. Hanamiya shudders, adrenaline rushing out into his entire body as Imayoshi pins him down to the bench, and the fingers against his throat loosen again, linger with the promise of more but none of the pressure while Imayoshi twists his hand and drags up against Hanamiya’s cock.

“You  _liar_ ,” he says, amused and dark, and then he’s rocking back and his fingers are pulling away, both hands coming down to catch at Hanamiya’s shorts and drag them down and off his legs. Hanamiya doesn’t lift his hips, lets the elastic catch and drag over him, and when Imayoshi pushes against his knee he lets his leg fall open wider with as little resistance. He’s still hazy with warmth, trembling with more sensation than basketball has ever given him, and even knowing what Imayoshi is likely to do just hits him with more of that seductive heat.

There’s a sucking sound, damp catching against fingers, and Imayoshi is reaching down, the makeshift lubrication of saliva smearing against Hanamiya’s skin. “You’re not a genius,” he says, and he’s pushing his fingers inside the other, Hanamiya is arching off the bench and hissing at the sudden burn of the intrusion. Imayoshi is still talking, the words coming at a delay as Hanamiya’s mind shortcircuits under the flickering electricity of the pain from the other’s motion. “You’re just broken.” His fingers dig in farther, push Hanamiya open around them, and Hanamiya’s heel skids out on the floor, drops him back flat to the bench and without the strength to arch back up again. Fingers close against his cock, squeeze the momentary relief of friction over him, and Imayoshi holds that pressure while he draws his hand back to thrust in again. Hanamiya groans, this time, his voice sounding unexpectedly hoarse from the lingering ache at his throat, and Imayoshi spreads the fingers inside him to stretch him open wider.

“You know what that makes you?” Imayoshi isn’t even stroking up over him, he’s just maintaining his steady grip on Hanamiya’s cock, but Hanamiya is twitching against his palm with every thrust of his fingers, the burn and ache setting all his nerve endings on fire. He thinks he might come just from this, if Imayoshi kept working him open with these sharper and sharper motions, and even as he thinks it the other is sliding his fingers free, taking the stretch with him and leaving just the chill throb of emptiness in his wake.

Hanamiya’s expecting some sort of follow-up. But Imayoshi stays still, his fingers tight against the base of Hanamiya’s cock but otherwise unmoving, and when Hanamiya blinks and looks down at him the other is watching him, his head tilted in that fake curiosity and his lips curved around an amused smile. Hanamiya has to actively reach for the lost thread of conversation before he can realize it’s an answer the other is waiting for, has to struggle to call up the smirk he wants along with his response.

“No,” he says, his voice still sounding friction-rough across his throat. “What does that make me?”

Imayoshi lets his hold on Hanamiya’s length go, reaches out instead to grab at his t-shirt and drag him upright. Hanamiya lets himself be pulled without making any effort to assist, doesn’t take his own weight until Imayoshi has pulled him off the bench and to his feet. Then he steadies his feet, shifts his stance as wide as he can get it with his feet still tangled in his half-forgotten shorts, and Imayoshi’s smile cracks wide again before he lets his hold go.

“Garbage,” he says, and then his other hand is coming up, slamming against Hanamiya’s shoulder to spin his fragile balance sideways and towards the line of lockers. Hanamiya gets his hands up in time to save his face, catches the impact with the metal across his palm instead of his jaw, and there’s an arm pressing against the curve of his back, pinning him in place while a foot steps between his and a knee forces his apart. Hanamiya shuts his eyes, presses in as close to the soothing cool of the locker as he can get, and then Imayoshi’s hand presses at his hip, pushes him flat and still against the metal. The grating on the locker door offers too-rough friction, digs lines of sensation against the aching heat of Hanamiya’s cock, and Hanamiya is just taking a breath and considering rocking against it when Imayoshi pushes against his hip and fits the head of his cock against Hanamiya’s entrance.

He’s hot, more than anything else. There’s the slick of saliva -- he must have spit against his palm and stroked up over himself -- but mostly he’s hot, and then he pushes forward and inside and then he’s  _big_ , and that’s the only thing Hanamiya can think about for a moment. His hands are curling in a desperate unconscious bid for resistance against the door of the locker, his aching throat is moaning a high aching sound, and Imayoshi is thrusting himself in deeper, pushing Hanamiya open by force more than care, and Hanamiya is burning and aching and rocking desperately against the locker. The surface feels icy on the burning heat of his cock, the roughness of the locker door catches so sharply as to be painful, and Hanamiya can’t even recognize his own breathing anymore, it sounds so torn and ragged.

“It doesn’t matter what you are,” Imayoshi says, the words purring all but meaningless against Hanamiya’s ringing ears as he pulls back, slides almost entirely out so Hanamiya’s whole body thrums in anticipation. “Genius.” His thrust is fast, as quick as the motion of his hands earlier, and Hanamiya jerks against the locker and groans again, pre-come spilling slick against the metal. “Prodigy.” Again, hard enough that the force jolts Hanamiya against the support and makes the door rattle against the frame. “If you’re broken, you’re just garbage.” Imayoshi’s stretching Hanamiya wide with every thrust, the heat of his skin catching into sweat on Hanamiya’s, and then his hand is coming up, his thumb bracing at the back of Hanamiya’s neck and his fingers feeling out the shape of his throat. His next thrust shoves Hanamiya’s cock against the friction of the locker, scrapes sensation over the hot-swollen head, and Hanamiya whines and gasps and comes, the heat that has been building under his skin surging drowning-deep as he shudders convulsively against the locker.

He doesn’t know how much longer Imayoshi fucks him. The locker supports most of his weight and the brace of the other boy’s hands at his hip and throat take care of the rest so Hanamiya doesn’t have to worry about staying upright. He’s too lost to track time, adrift in aching heat so intense it’s not even pain or pleasure anymore. It’s just endless sensation, burning away everything that he has been and turning him into a single aching nerve, until he’s almost disappointed when he feels Imayoshi go tense and come in pulsing waves of heat inside him.

Imayoshi pulls out right away, lets Hanamiya go so he can slide down across the locker sticky with come and fall boneless against the support. When he blinks up the older boy is watching him as he pulls his shorts back into place, his mouth still formed around that smile. Hanamiya doesn’t think his expression has so much as flickered this whole time.

“Thanks for staying,” Imayoshi says, his tone as pristine and steady as if they really have been talking this whole time. “I trust I won’t have problems with you again, Hanamiya.”

Hanamiya doesn’t answer. He just stares up at Imayoshi’s perfect smile, watches the shine of his teeth when it goes wider.

“Good,” the other boy finally says, lifts a hand in an easy wave. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”

Hanamiya doesn’t move for minutes after Imayoshi has left. His shirt is sticky from the mess on the locker, his thighs damp with sweat and spit and come and going chill the longer he stays still, and he’s certain beyond a doubt that there’s no sign of a bruise anywhere on his throat or hip to stand as evidence.

He wonders, now, what he would have to do to get Imayoshi to mark him as his own.


End file.
